Elpis
by thehush
Summary: John Watson was a dead man, a walking shadow of his former self. He needed a miracle, and then in walked hope. Sherlock/"The Secret World" crossover. JohnLock.
1. Chapter 1: Daze

**"Elpis" by Erin**

**_Author's Note:_**_ I really shouldn't be writing anything new, but here it is. I'd like to thank "Evenlodes Friend" for her great stories that kind of pushed me to write a type of story I haven't done in a long time. I guess you could call this a romantic-drama with an adventure-sci-fi-fantasy possibility? Not sure, but it's there, in the back ground – and not where you're expecting it._

_After I wrote this chapter, I really felt like I'm getting rusty. Feedback and constructive criticism are always appreciated. _

* * *

Chapter 1: Daze

"Auntie!"

John was startled awake by the sudden sound of the front door slamming against the stairwell. He blinked at the morning light streaming in through the skylight. He remembered it was his day off and groaned. He thought to try and drift back off but the excited voices downstairs carried up through the ducts and pulled him out of bed.

He slid on his jeans after a quick trip to the bathroom and ducked into a shirt before padding out onto the landing. Mrs. Hudson seemed to hear the door and looked up.

"Oh John, come meet my grand niece, Zara, will you?" She motioned for him to come down, a no-nonsense look to her eyes. How long had it been since he had invited her up for tea he wondered.

He sighed, his whole body protesting at the thought of even going down the stairs. This was out of his comfort zone. A step away from the flat meant he had to function outside the routine that kept him in the successful daze he'd fallen into.

John froze on the first step.

A young woman's face looked up at him, her disheveled short brown hair stuffed under a skullcap. It was too early for his hallucinations to be kicking in, especially at the sudden entrance of Ms. Hudson, but he swore he saw the ghost of his best friend in the girl holding the hand of his landlady. She was a lanky thing, only slightly taller then her Great Aunt, her eyes didn't even look the same, almost black in the light of the doorway. There was something about her though, maybe the look she was giving him as he realized he was staring.

He blinked – and blinked again. Sherlock's ghost had to drift over everyone these days.

The girl saluted him with two fingers, "Hiya, you must Mr. Watson." A smile spread across her face as she ducked her head and grabbed her large duffle bag. "Don't trouble yourself, sir. I'm the one bargin' in on your mornin'."

With that she was heading around Ms. Hudson and towards the basement flat. "Auntie you can't just go demandin' things before tea, it's not polite."

"Oh Zara, really, it's so good to know you're safe here on Baker Street…" John found himself making his way down the stairs so he could hear the older woman without realizing it. "but really, you could stay with me. Fireplace or not, you'll be damp and freezing all the time. And the mold, really-"

"Nonsense, before you know it you'll be wantin' to live with _me_." John peeked around the banister to find Zara patting the other woman's arm. "I'll manage. You know me. Now give us a proper tour would you?"

Ms. Hudson sighed. "Ever like your father. Alright." She gave the girl a soft smile, the kind that said so much and yet so little.

As the door was unlocked, John fidgeted on the stairs, unsure of what to do with himself. He had come down the stairs and now realized he was intruding – and yet it puzzled him why he was even following after in the first place. He rubbed his eyes glaring down at his bare feet.

For a moment he let the moment sink in, the panic of a sudden change edging around the daze that was already settling in around him.

Nothing was different he told himself.

_Nothing ever happens to me._

* * *

The second time John woke up that day; he was confused that he had even been sleeping. When had he gone up the stairs after Zara and Ms. Hudson's interruption?

The confusion turned into a sadness he tried to wipe away like the wetness on his face.

He'd been dreaming again – of Sherlock. Of the fall. Of the quiet.

John realized what had woke him was the sound of music downstairs. A radio blaring at a volume that said 'no one's home and I'm working'. It reminded him of years before, a radio blaring as someone cleaned guns, the army fresh and new to him.

Again he sat up, this time finding it was mid afternoon. For a moment it felt like it was already the next day, but the date hadn't changed. Having fallen asleep in his clothes, he allowed himself to go to the landing and look down.

Down below two Indian men were taking out the discards of an old carpet, Zara not far behind. The two men did speak, seeming to know what needed to be done through body movement, but Zara chattered away on her mobile.

"Thank you Rose, but no, I'm stayin' right here. I could use a familiar face though if you aren't busy." She leaned in the doorway into the house and sighed. "No I'm fine, it's just not easy having a roof over my head again, yeah? Look we'll have a pint after I get settled, catch up. Yeah, I'll be safe – you remember to relax."

For a moment she didn't turn, just pulled the phone to her chest. One of the men quietly spoke with her, money exchanged between the two before she bowed her head and ducked back to close the door.

Zara's voice was suddenly directed at him and he jumped, his foot already on the second step. "You always listen in on other people's conversations?" She turned to look up at him, a smirk playing at her lips.

For a moment he forgot he had a voice, he opened his mouth to speak, but his voice sounded foreign to him. "What are you doing?"

She smiled now, shaking her head. "Boy, you must be out of sorts if that's all you got." Rounding the banister, Zara headed back for her flat and then turned back to look at him. "Come on, Auntie left me some sandwiches in case I got hungry. I can't eat them all."

Before his brain could fully understand what was happening, John found himself in the girl's living room, its concrete underbelly chilling his feet. She was turning down her radio, the iPod blinking to life. He couldn't place what day he and Sherlock had come into the space – but he knew it wasn't at all the way it looked then.

A chill ran through him – memories of the Moriarty swelling up in the back of his mind.

"Sorry to wake you again, thought I'd do what I could to the place today. Don't have any furniture…" She eyed him as she crouched over a can of paint and he had to blink to not fall back into the daze. "You want to help? You look like you need a distraction?"

John looked down at her. "Why do you think that?"

She smiled. "I know loss when I see it, Mr. Watson. Both my parents died not that long ago. The only thin' that got me out of bed in the mornin' was distractin' myself. Some of us run until our chests burn, others renovate rooms – I like to do both."

Something tugged at his mouth. A smile? Possibly, but he brushed it off and ran a hand through his hair. It was a mess. He was a mess. Everyone had been telling him that.

Zara cocked her head to the side and waited.

He sighed, looking at the room around him. Why was he here? What had he even gotten out of bed for? Maybe it was his subconscious being bored.

_Bored_. The word sent another shiver up his spine. God how _boring_ this world was… Sherlock.

She smiled wide before suddenly jumping up. "You need to rip wallpaper!"

John suddenly came back to reality as her hand touched his, tugging him over to a wall. A scraper fit neatly between his fingers as she presented the offending piece to him. "I've never…"

"Not an option sir, it's a puzzle you'll figure out. Half the fun." She prodded him in the side. "And-." Zara disappeared and then reappeared with half a sandwich to stuff into his free hand. "Eat something."

Annoyance overtook him, staring at that hideous wallpaper. He wasn't sure why he was annoyed, but he was, and the feeling helped him to stuff the sandwich (chicken salad) into his mouth and gave the wall a good scrape.

He wouldn't admit it, especially to himself, but it felt good.

* * *

It was close to eight by the time Ms. Hudson came back from shopping. She paused at her flat to set down her groceries and purse before carefully sneaking a glimpse into Zara's.

A soft song played on the radio set up on the fireplace, the floor bare as the four walls it supported.

The girl waved, but made no motion to get up.

John Watson had fallen asleep against a once wallpapered wall.

He was _smiling_.


	2. Chapter 2: The Girl Who Smiled

**"Elpis" by Erin**

Author's Note: I'd like to thank Tumblr for being Tumblr. As a new Sherlock fan it has really become a home away from home. I'd also like to thank my friend Jo for being my beta and Sarah for reading it despite not knowing what the hell I'm talking about. *lol*

**Chapter 2: The Girl Who Smiled**

_A hot wind blew in off the desert as John's back was pressed against a wall in a ruined house. He enjoyed the change in temperature as sweat ran slowly down his back, but he couldn't remember why he was alone or when this memory had taken place, if ever. The only thing he knew for sure was that the color of purple and a faint sent of orange was out of place._

"_John." Sherlock crouched down in front of him, resting his hand on his rifle. "Walk with me."_

_He looked up, his chest feeling tight with excitement and nerves. It must have been happiness, but it had been ages since he had been happy. It was a feeling only his friend had ever given him. He didn't go to move, his eyes moving back to the horizon through the window._

"_I can't yet, Sherlock. It's not safe." He whispered, as if he feared someone might hear them._

_His friend's voice felt as if it were enveloping him. "I thought you liked danger?"_

_John looked up again and took Sherlock's hand. With a squeeze he felt tears burn his dry eyes. "I couldn't protect you…"_

_Sherlock pressed a hand against the wall and leaned into him, pressing his lips against his ear. He couldn't quite place why it made him shiver or why it would have made the pit of his stomach twitch and hum to life – but he wanted to toss his gun aside and hold his friend close. He didn't want Sherlock, even in his dreams, to disappear._

_The voice in his ear forced his eyes to close, forgetting the desert for a moment. "It was my turn to protect you."_

_He was gone._

* * *

John jolted awake, immediately regretting the sudden movement. Somehow he had gotten back to his flat after dozing in Zara's room. His alarm clock slowly clicked over to six o'clock and he sighed at the buzz that filled the semi-darkness.

There was no Sherlock; there was only his boring life.

* * *

She perked up, sliding from her sleeping bag on the concrete floor and shimming into her jeans. Ms. Hudson had been right about the cold settling in on the room, but Zara seemed unphased, slipping on her red vest, its white fur hood and midriff contradicting and out of place in the start of October. Especially as she only had her sleep tank underneath. She clipped a trinket onto her belt loop and righted her necklace before she was out the door and onto her moped.

From Baker Street, the Aldwych crescent was across Westminster. There were hundreds of places a girl of her age and impression could have made a small living at between the two, but Zara took her moped down to the Strand and onto the Kingsway. She passed the Strand's Piccadilly Line entrance before turning into a side street that had her coming to a sudden stop on Aldwych, almost running over a familiar face as she walked into her way.

Zara could tell the woman was rolling her eyes behind her sunglasses as she came to a stop. "Mate, you've got the timing of a saint. Get your arse in gear and open up that shop before the punks start a riot. Who'll print their flyers without their precious Miss Glenn, yeah?"

"Good mornin' to you too, Ms. Vata. Comin' down to see the flat?" She asked, ignoring the woman's sarcasm.

A tap of her glasses and her mentor was eying the other side of the building as if to study the construction workers. "Nah girl, gotta get myself up to a job on the islands. Takin' Konrad with me – and you know how he hates being socialable." Something caught her eye, but Zara only worried about her keys. "Just came round to make sure no one was pokin' round, s'all."

The girl walked her moped to the print shop's door and unlocked the small business built into a slice of the old Piccadilly Line entrance. She could hear renovation from both the Aldwych exit and the Strand entrance a ways behind, but early morning on the crescent was still as serene and welcoming as a walk in the park.

"Sure… should I be worried?" She grabbed the woman's hand and drug her into the print shop along with her moped.

Ms. Vata groaned as she passed over the threshold. "Just the usual – punks, homeless, and uglies. Nothin' you can't handle. You've got a charm on you? You don't look like you're hidin' anything."

Zara chuckled, going behind the counter to open a small fridge and toss her friend a bottle of water. "Get goin', text me when you head out. Tell Konrad I said to cheer up and if you pass through the park, get Callie and her knight up here. There's still a lot of work to do."

Catching the water bottle, a smile finally cracked across the woman's face. "Yeah, yeah, catch you in the underground."

As she started to head out, Zara's voice called after her. "Gaia watch over you, Ms. Vata!"

Her silhouette waved as a laugh drifted back through the door. "If she can keep up, darlin'."

On his way to St. Barts, a wall John had passed so many times in the last two years caught his eye and drew him to a sudden stop.

Several hoodied teens, faces hidden behind scarves, were huddled together admiring the long brick wall someone had taken the liberty of defacing. The smell of aerosol paint was heavy in the air – but that wasn't the reason he could hardly breathe.

Across the building, his best friend stared down at him from the farthest corner. Dark curls hid his eyes as well as a yellow streak of paint across his face. He wore his signature coat and his long arm outstretched as if to depict him falling from the hospital again. The arm framed scenes from John's blog entries in a detail that could only come from site regulars. People strapped with bombs were hailing black cabs that trailed pink tracks through China town. Business men and hell hounds were leashed as they followed willingly after a dominatrix. The last of the flow of stories ended just under Sherlock's armpit, next to his heart. The front of his flat, its black door obvious, stood out amongst white buildings. A pair of children, looking like Hansel and Gretel, stood just under a window overlooking the street while a man, painted to look like him, held onto a broken heart as he looked out.

The sound of spray-paint startled him from his thoughts and he found one of the taller artists crouching down to use the same yellow paint that hid the eyes of his friend. Great care was taken to make _#__believeinsherlock_ as legible as spray-paint could, and then it seemed to dominate the space below Sherlock's head.

"Hey, that's him." One of them whispered before cans were stuffed into their backpacks.

Before he could even think of something to say, they saluted him and were gone.

* * *

The print shop, on a Monday morning, was quiet, with only the random college student running in to make a copy or two. Zara's last customer before lunch had just left and so she flipped the open sign over, tugging in Sir John, Callie's boyfriend, from his make shift book stall. He gladly took his wares to the back of the shop and disappeared into the break room where Callie had been watching the television.

She was set to head down to any one of the restaurants that lined the way, but a dark figure opened the door to the shop, clearly never stopping to read the sign.

"Sorry, shop's closed for lunch-"

The girl stopped talking when she realized she was looking at a familiar face. He was the sort you didn't give a name to, just a man she saw on a regular basis – a regular. In the underground, where the homeless slept, she had shared many a sandwich with him and here he was with a crisp clean piece of paper that she knew had come from someone's desk.

She took the flyer and she perked up when she could read what it said. "Bless, I've been waiting for this." Zara grabbed a handful of paper, already set up to make multiple colored flyers, and let the printer do the rest of the work. In minutes there was a pile of flyers with Sherlock Holmes' face plaster across them and #believeinsherlock typed on strips underneath.

The man turned to leave but she caught the collar of his coat, not wanting his dirty hair to fall out of the hood of his hoodie underneath. "Wait now, love, you done me a service and I don't know when I'll be underground next."

He stopped and turned halfway, eying her under the brim of his hood. "Zara…" His deep voice sounded strange in the sunlit room, like a shadow shaking itself from the wall.

Zara ignored the use of her name. It usually meant she was either being too concerned or too curious – but neither bothered her. Opening the fridge she pulled out two tuna salad sandwiches and a large bottle of water. Passing it over the counter, she caught his wrist and looked into the darkness that shaded his eyes. "Keep your strength up. You know where to find me."

When she let go, he took a moment to unwrap one of the sandwiches and sniffed it before he gave her a tight smile. "You should have Chinese."

The phrase would have confused most people, as would a homeless man being allowed to just walk into a business with no worries, but Zara just smiled, having to bite her lip to not laugh. "Quite right, sir."

* * *

It was close to after lunch by the time John was done with surgery. Sarah was giving him hard looks as he sat heavily at his desk, the lack of sleep getting to him.

"John, I appreciate you coming in and all, but if you aren't feeling well…" She started, but he wouldn't let her finish.

"No, no, I'm fine. I just haven't been sleeping well." He tried to smile, but it was so forced it was obvious. "Really, Sarah."

She still looked at him, lips pursed. "I can tell when someone hasn't been eating, John – or sleeping. You've been doing both. I can't have you hurting a patient-"

"I just can't take time off again…" He started, but Sarah's attention faltered, her face looking confused.

"John, there's a girl just… waiting outside." She moved away from the door and he couldn't help but follow after her.

When he could finally see out of the office door, he found that Zara stood oblivious against the hallway outside their office. She was framed by the glass window, nodding her head to a tune that she pumped through the same red phone he saw the day before. Two bags of take away from the Chinese place down the street from their flats sat on the floor. He swallowed the feeling they instantly produced as he headed for the door. She was a strange sight after having met with the solemn crowd that usually graced his office.

For the first time in months, he eagerly opened the door for someone.

He surprised himself at how happy he sounded. "Hey, how'd you find me?"

She peered over her phone at him. "Auntie's a wealth of information, John. Even, I can read."

They shared a small chuckle before he took her bags and welcomed her in. "You could have just come in, this isn't a flat- uh, Sarah, this is Ms. Hudson's Grand Niece, Zara. She just moved into the flat downstairs from… mine."

Sarah gave the girl a firm handshake, but John noticed her smile looked forced – worried. Sherlock had rubbed off on him. "Nice to meet you, I was just about to let him leave for lunch."

Zara was unphased by the other woman's concern. "Oh, good, perfect timing then." She ducked away from Sarah and headed towards John's office. "I hope you didn't bring anything, Mr. Watson."

"That's Doctor Watson, miss." Sarah corrected, but Zara made no mention that she had heard.

He followed after, giving Sarah a look that clearly said 'I'm as lost as you are', before he was back into his space. Zara had set down her backpack beside a client chair and sat down with as much ease as coming home from a long day of work.

"I haven't really been all that hungry lately…" He started, but Sarah gave him a look through the doorway. "But I'm starving today."

"John, I'm going to head to the cafeteria, Tim's taking over now and I'll let Pamela know you're on break." His friend informed him as she shut his door and could be heard closing up shop. After all the blinking and staggering he was doing he was sure she'd come back after her lunch to tell him to go home.

Sarah was a saint for keeping him around as long as she had.

A cough caught John off guard and he realized he wasn't alone. The red glare in the room brought him back to Zara, who was waiting expectantly for him to open the take away bags and pass out the food.

"You look tired." She commented, slipping out of her shoes to tuck her legs underneath her.

"You wouldn't be the first person to notice." He said, pulling out the styrofoam containers to find she had ordered his favorite meal, _Char siu_ chicken, as well as several extras he rarely got for himself or Sherlock when cases were low. "This must have cost you more then twenty quid."

She shrugged. "A good meal is worth the money, my father used to say."

He handed her a container of honey chicken and rice and she immediately broke apart her chopsticks and dug it. She looked ravenous, but he tried to not stare.

"Your father." John suddenly found himself curious. She had mentioned them so nonchalantly the evening before. There was suddenly a whole history between Ms. Hudson and a flat of her own that needed to be filled and his interest was peaked.

Zara looked at her food, as if wanting to avoid the topic. "Yeah. I hope you like _Char siu_. You look like a barbeque man."

He let the topic slide for now, but something had suddenly changed about the girl in his office. She seemed to have dimmed a little, like a meal had brought up something she would have rather kept to herself. He could only imagine how losing your parents could make every meal a sore subject.

They were sharing a moment, and he wasn't quite sure how he felt about that - especially with a complete stranger.

Sitting down, he took up one of the plastic forks in the bag and studied the food. His stomach burned from hunger suddenly, a feeling he hadn't had in months. "You got it spot on, actually. I didn't think that was the sort of thing you could deduce."

"Deduce?" Zara smiled around her chopsticks. "That's a weird word to use. You just look like the sort that would be out with his family, cooking barbeque. Dunno why, maybe it's 'cause you look comfy. Traditional…" Her eyes dimmed a little again and she petered out, stuffing another piece of chicken into her mouth.

Then she coughed.

It was the sort of cough that sounded like choking at first, but then was clearly an old cold trying to clear itself from her chest. John could hear it as soon as she laughed, embarrassed. He eyed her, but her chicken was much more interesting to her.

He stood slowly, leaning on the desk. "How long has it been since you last saw a doctor?"

"Oh, um." She looked nervous. "No need, I'm fine. I just had a case of the sniffles a while back when I was still backpackin' it."

"Uh, no, you need that looked at." John pulled open a drawer in his desk and took out a stethoscope he kept around to check sudden worries patients might have. It seemed to make people feel better, even when it was something he knew wouldn't be determined by a deep breath.

John motioned for her to stand. "Come on; let's have a look at you."

She shook her head, giving him a stubborn look. "I'm fine, don't trouble yourself."

"Are you arguing with a doctor?" He chuckled, half amused, half annoyed with her lack of care for herself. "It's the least I can do for you buying me lunch." He offered.

He could see her relenting at the thought. With a sigh, she stood, but held onto her food, stuffing another bite of honey chicken into her mouth. He lifted her shirt a bit and was surprised at the lack of shift her body took. Most people tensed when the cold metal touched their skin or when he had to invade the privacy of a body protected by clothes – but all she did was chew on her food, calmly staring at the wall behind him.

John gently stopped her hand with the chopsticks before she could take another bite. Her chewing was throwing off her breathing and he couldn't get a proper reading.

"You act like you haven't eaten in days." He said, finally pulling her attention from the wall.

"No sir, YOU act like you haven't eaten in days. I act like I'm used to not finding food for days. There's quite a difference." She gave a small smile. "Being homeless for a good year or two does that some."

He didn't stop listening to her chest, her sudden escalated heartbeat and the wheeze in her lungs revealing more then she would probably ever tell him. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-one." She offered. "The authorities had me as a missing person."

John decided it was now or never if he was ever going to bring up her comments earlier. "How long has it been since you saw your parents?"

She suddenly looked very uncomfortable, the skin under his fingertips tensing and shying away from the stethoscope. He slipped his hand away and made a move to step back, giving her space to answer.

Zara didn't seem to notice. "It depends on your concept of "seen". I last saw them leaving by car while I was waving goodbye to them. I last saw their remains not long before they were cremated."

He headed back for his desk, not expecting the answer she gave at all. "Oh."

For a moment, the room sat in an awkward silence. They both sat and took up their food, John mostly staring at it while Zara began shoveling it back into her mouth hungrily.

"S'alright." She managed finally. "You wouldn't be the first person to think a girl like me was a runaway."

"I…" He rubbed his neck. "That was a bit rude of me."

"S'alright, really." She motioned towards his food. "Try a bite. It'll make you feel better."

He shook his head, but didn't look away from it. "It… it's going to taste…"

"Like ash in your mouth?" Zara offered, her side of the room sudden alight again – as if she had shoved aside his earlier prying and was completely focusing on him.

"Food just hasn't tasted right, lately." He tried to explain, but it didn't feel as if he could fully explain the feeling with words.

It was like food was repulsive and stuffed full of everything he couldn't deal with anymore. How many take-aways had he shared with Sherlock? How many times had they discovered what terrible cooks they were or what food could they keep in the flat with his friend's experiments everywhere? They survived off tea and biscuits when they weren't paying attention and a quick bite at a local restaurant when Sherlock could get them a cheap meal.

"When my parents died, I went for weeks without food. I had to pass out before I realized I might need to swallow something that wasn't water. Grief just does something to our brains that switches off taste. Even my favorite food looked and tasted awful, but I shoved that down and tried to remind myself that I'm not doing anyone a favor by not eating. Eventually it started to remind me of good times I had with them. A sandwich my dad made while I was studying, a soup mom surprised me with on a cold day – little things that started a chain reaction that woke me up." She coughed, and took a deep breath. "I caught a cold during that time. Several actually. You don't want to be starving and sick, Mr. Watson."

Looking down at his food, he felt himself nod in response, but it seemed a part of his mind was already building up a memory for him to savor.

The first night he and Sherlock celebrated a job well done with Chinese takeaway. He had killed a man for him. Lied for him.

Without hesitation, he drew food to his mouth and chewed, his jaw humming to life at the sensation. Pieces of life before the fall resurfaced: honey on toast in the morning; spices tickling his senses; soy and hoisin sauce spilling on the floor and mixing with laughter; and the bright red of flushed pale skin.

Before he knew it, he was already three bites in and Zara was radiating. "That's it sir, fill yourself up with something other then ash."

* * *

The Chinese food was not settling well. Third time to the bathroom and Sarah told him to go home. For once he didn't protest. He was miserable – and yet, strangely satisfied.

He did his best to avoid the defaced wall, but found that his eyes lingered as he passed the fingertips stretching for something past the wall. The trek home went by in no time, his body on auto-pilot, people and places blending until he reached Baker Street. When he was safely inside the house, he felt the comfortable daze attempt to wrap him up in it's familiarity, coaxing him upstairs to remind him why he had stopped eating and attempting to sleep, despite not really getting to. It was better then interacting with the outside world. Better than remembering.

But a voice seemed to shove the daze off his shoulders and pull him away from the flat. Zara, full of energy, slid through the hallway and looked up at him from the bottom of the stairs.

"Mr. Watson, are you doing anythin'? My friends' bailed on me and as I haven't been to a pub in months I was kinda hopin' – you're lookin' a little green." She eyed him, the pub prospects completely forgotten, he wagered.

"As thankful for the food as I was, it turns out I'm a bit of an idiot and might have forgotten how bad it is for one to eat greasy food after a long stint of fasting."

Zara looked mortified. "Oh Mr. Watson, I'm so sorry." She bit back a laugh suddenly, hiding behind her hand, but it filled up her eyes with a light that made them sparkle. "I should have brought you their egg drop soup or somethin'. Start you off easy."

He groaned, trying to turn back to the flat, but she had a way of holding one's attention. "Look, uh, Zara, can I be alone for a bit? I just want to sleep."

"Isn't that all you do?" She asked, resting her head on the banister.

She was perceptive and persistent and John didn't know whether that should worry him or not. Her smile kept him from turning again, seeming to ask him without words if she could invade his life for a bit.

He sighed and she took that as her cue to speak. "How about I make it up to you? I've got a few remedies for a gippy tummy. Maybe a bit of tea to settle you?"

John fidgeted on the stairs before rolling his eyes. He really didn't know why he was relenting, but there he was, motioning for her to follow. "Alright, come on up."

With a bounce to her step, she followed after; trying not to hurry passed him. He was still sluggish, but when the realization hit him that Zara was coming up to the flat – to actually SEE the flat, he made a small noise of worry and hurried into the living room, attempting to clean up. The girl was unphased, looking around at the room as though it was a museum.

"Wow. You really got quite a spot here, Mr. Watson. Needs a little love, but Auntie sure gave you the best of the house." She reached out and grazed her fingers across the smiley face left by Sherlock. "It's got a lot of character."

"Oh, that." John tried to not show how uncomfortable her noticing made him, but she saw and she simply moved away from the couch and kept her eyes trained on the kitchen.

"Do you mind if I invade your kitchen?" She pushed at the sliding door, marveling at it.

He sat in his chair heavily, figuring if she was going to stay in there for a bit that he could rest after his long walk. His stomach was starting to protest again. "I apologize for the mess."

"Don't worry yourself sir, I've been in worse. Yours is understandable." Despite her comment he could hear her click her tongue as she went about the kitchen, eyeing things.

It was when he heard the fridge open that he realized his mistake, yet again. A sharp hitch of breath and a yelp echoed off the small room's walls. "By the queen's garters – JOHN." She looked back at him, eyes wide.

His face went straight to his hands, rubbing the ache beginning to form between his eyes. "That… don't worry, it's a medical experiment."

She still gawked at him. "Can't you do that at the morgue?"

John sighed before her comment brought up a thought that wasn't fully about Sherlock and the list of experiments _still_ sitting in the kitchen. "Hold on." He took up his cell phone and sent a message to Molly.

_Remember that offer? I'll take you up on it now._

A moment later, his phone buzzed.

_Heading home. I'll stop by. Boxes?_

_Yeah. _He sent back and then stood and headed into the crawlspace Ms. Hudson had stuffed boxes in from the shop next door. She had offered them up as a way of helping him pack away Sherlock's belongings, but for some reason he just couldn't bring himself to do anything more then put up dirty dishes.

It had been almost a year since the fall… why did it still hurt so much?

"What's going on?" Zara asked, edging out of the kitchen as if it were a crime scene.

"A friend of mine from the hospital is up to do me a favor. She's wanted all of-" He motioned at the kitchen before crossing his arms. The idea of even giving Sherlock's things to Molly, things that had annoyed him when Sherlock were still alive, felt wrong. "this… for a while now. I haven't had a proper kitchen since I moved in here."

The girl nodded, "This isn't yours then, I take it?"

"No… god no." He huffed a laugh, not sure if he actually thought it was funny that she thought he might have been secretly psychotic or that he had grown so used to it that other people's reactions were funny.

"Well, I don't know if you've noticed the smell, but it really is starting to reek in here." She grimaced.

He hadn't noticed. Again, he had grown so used to the state of things that when he really stopped to look at the state of the kitchen, he couldn't believe Ms. Hudson hadn't done anything about it.

_I'm not your housekeeper._ Her voice called to him from memory, but even he could tell she was trying not to disturb his fragile state, even with changing anything.

"I guess I'll try and clean it tomorrow…" He started, but trailed off as her eyebrow raised at him. "What?"

"Why wait until tomorrow? You've still got time today." Zara smiled down at him. That smile was really starting to worry him. It wasn't the sort men fell for; it was the sort that made people follow.

How many times was she going to make him sigh in resignation?

"Did we skip a conversation back there on the stairs?" He offered, trying to sound angry at her ease in coaxing him into things without having known him for more than two days – but there she was, waiting.

Smiling.

"Dammit." He muttered, standing up.

"That's it, Mr. Watson, walk it off." She chirped, seeming to, again, bounce into the kitchen and searching for his cleaners.

While she hummed to herself, wiping counters and setting things on the table, he began to box Sherlock's plastic containers of experiments into boxes. Periodically she'd ask about how he took his tea or how long something had been in the fridge, but for the most part, they were quiet. His stomach seemed to settle as he drank the offered concoction (several things coming from her own kitchen) and his mind began to quiet. He was sure Molly had come by at some point, as the boxes had disappeared and she and Zara had had a conversation without him really understanding half of it, but sometime after the kitchen was cleaned and manageable and the clock was starting to blur – it was close to twelve in the morning.

He looked down at his tea to find it was gone and Zara was eyeing him.

"You look tired, sir, I'm heading back down if that's alright? Will _you_ be alright?"

John nodded, but wasn't sure if he could get himself to his own bed – the thought unnerved him.

"I… What was in this tea?" He eyed his cup again.

"Nothing out of the ordinary, just tea. Yours is meant to help you sleep though. I noticed the bags; I figured you're not one for sleeping teas. Must be why you're so relaxed."

He grunted, feeling his eyes droop even more now. An arm slid under his and helped him stand, leading him into Sherlock's room. "Thank you…"

Her voice was a whisper in his ear and it confused him why he didn't flush like he had when any other women had done the same. "Of course, Mr. Watson. If you want, I can make you that tea whenever you want."

"That would be… fantastic." He managed before finding himself falling into bed, his shoes slipped off and the covers tossed over him. A small part of him had hoped he could have changed or that should could have at least helped him up the stairs to his own room, but his mind shut down as soon as the light beside him clicked off.

* * *

In the night she woke at the slightest sound. It was familiar activity – waking, checking, falling back to sleep. This time, there was something to check for. A figure was standing over her, like a shadow away from its body. She sighed, smiling up at it. John's couch was uncomfortable and dusty – she was glad to be able to finally leave it.

A long, white hand reached for her and she took it, the figure helping her up with only a little trouble. Zara laid a hand on its chest when she stopped on her way to the door and then quietly stepped out into the stairwell.

By the time she had made her way to her own flat, the door to John's was closed and the home felt as if something was trying to click back into place.

London wasn't whole, but it would be soon.

* * *

After I wrote this chapter, I really felt like I'm getting rusty. Feedback and constructive criticism are always appreciated.

Zara is an original character, btw. *hugs her* I can't wait to write more with her.


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